


Would you like Fries with That?

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alfred F. Jones - Freeform, Alfred loves food, Cold War, Comedy, Complicated Relationships, Food, Funny, Historical References, Ivan Braginski - Freeform, Ivan just needs hugs, Love/Hate, M/M, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Slow Build, World Meeting (Hetalia), and vodka, slight crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 15:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13460922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: If there is one thing Alfred loves, it's foreign cuisine. He just never realized how much he loved Russian cuisine.





	Would you like Fries with That?

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a long drabble about Alfred eating food. That's it. I wrote it because I watched a video of a Russian guy cooking Stroganoff, which has been a personally favorite food of mine since I was a kid, and I just...ugh. I want it so bad.
> 
> Enjoy I guess. It's a mess. It took on a mind of its own.

If there was one thing that drove Alfred up a _fucking wall,_ it was the food served at the World Meetings. 

It had become an unspoken tradition that the countries attending would bring dishes from their homes, simply out of respect and opening their minds to other cultures. Granted, some were more accepting than others in that respect, but for the most part everything always went surprisingly well. After all, what better way to bring the world together than food? 

What drove Alfred insane was that the food was very rarely ever labeled to show whose it was. For some countries it was fairly obvious. England’s food, for example, was always inedible and burnt (unless it was a store-bought). France’s food was always served on fancy plates or bowls, and it was always delicious. Italy’s food was almost _always_ pasta unless his brother was in charge. Etc.

Some of the food, however, was unrecognizable to Alfred. Some countries’ cuisines were extremely similar, while some were so outspoken and odd that they would never say if it was theirs unless everyone loved it. It was so hard to try and figure out who made what, and it drove Alfred absolutely mad. He wanted to know where this food came from so he could offer words of encouragement, or ask questions on how it was made! He almost always loved everything, so it was disappointing when he didn’t know who to thank. The one time he discovered his favorite sausage at one meeting was Polish, he nearly did somersaults of joy before crushing Feliks in a tight embrace. It was totally, like, the best sausage he’d ever eaten. 

Alfred looked around the giant table of food, wondering just what to pick. He wanted to try everything but everyone went all out since Christmas was just around the corner. There were a few countries (who would remain unnamed) who could make a shitload of food for celebrations, and even he had to admit it was hard to eat so much at once. That was saying something. The one time he’d been invited to a feast in Turkey he was so full afterwards he slept for a week. And then they tried to feed him more!

It had been fucking delicious though.

Alfred spotted some scones at one end of the table, beside what he could only assume was haggis, no doubt from Scotland. Yeah, he would pass on that…but he had to admit that Arthur’s scones actually looked pretty good. Maybe Francis helped him a bit this year. After Alfred put one on his plate he looked around for some other things to try. Some of the food he’d had before and he knew that he liked pretty much everything. Speaking of Turkey, he found some of that pilaf that he loved and scooped some on. There was an Italian pasta dish from Feliciano, and something else next to it that looked like…tomato salad?* Eh, probably something from Lovino. Honestly, Alfred knew it would be good if those two made it, so he piled some of that on. He grabbed some paella from Spain, and then a bowl of some French soup. He had no idea what it was, but it was probably delicious. Or full of snails.

After stacking his plate like he was in a buffet, he ran over to the table that he knew Arthur, Matthew, and Kiku would be sitting and set down plate number one. Running back with plate number two, Alfred had to wait in the line of the others who were getting some food of their own. Once he had reached the point he’d left off at he realized the food seemed a lot less familiar, with the exception of little sample bottles of Canadian maple syrup (which he gladly took three of). 

This was the point where Alfred started to get annoyed. While a lot of the food looked very strange to him, he knew he’d probably enjoy it on some level. It mostly drove him crazy because he had absolutely no idea who made it, and so if for some reason he did like it he wouldn’t be able to know where to get more. 

Glancing ahead towards the end of the table he saw some familiar Asian cuisine, but everything between it and the other end of the table was completely unrecognizable. Eh, whatever. He may as well enjoy whatever the stuff is while he still can.

There were a lot of soupy looking foods, and all of them looked equally odd and delicious. After grabbing a tiny bowl of some sort of cheesy potato…something*, and scooping up some weird noodle potato dumplings with white sauce*, Alfred’s eye caught something disturbingly familiar. Oh, he knew what _that_ pinkish soup was.

Borscht.

There was no way in hell he’d eat something Ivan made. No way in hell. Not after last time.

__

_“Privyet, Alfred!”_

_Alfred groaned at the sound of a familiar Russian accent. He had done all he could to avoid Ivan since their new “relationship.” The Cold War had finally come an end and their countries were both at peace._

_Sort of._

_Despite their bosses putting an end to the tension between the two nations, ending all threats to destroy one another, Alfred and Ivan still had issues getting along. Alfred was beginning to wonder if it was their personality differences that caused them to drive each other insane, rather than an intentional longing for rivalry. Alfred did admit, he loved to be the hero…and every hero had to have a villain. For a long time he’d made Ivan that enemy, but now he was beginning to think that hadn’t been the best idea._

_\--Because now Ivan wouldn’t leave him alone._

_Every meeting, every gathering—every single time Alfred was within one-hundred miles of the other, Ivan would come running up to him. One might think that Ivan was just trying to be friendly, but Alfred knew better than that. The Russian loved to rile him up just as much as the next guy._

_Ivan ran up to Alfred with a big and bright smile. Before the he had time to tell Ivan to go hump a snowman or something, the Russian grabbed his forearm and began dragging him across the lunchroom. Alfred tried to pull away, but Ivan was an exceptionally strong man, and he quickly found himself being forcefully shoved down onto a chair. Opening his mouth to demand what the hell Ivan thought he was doing, the Russian shoved a fork into his hand and pushed a small bowl of food towards him._

_If it could even be called food._

_Alfred peered at it suspiciously, poking the strange meal in front of him. It was pink, with varying layers of…stuff? It did not look very appetizing—actually, it reminded him of the food he used to eat back in the old days when gelatin was in. That had been an…adventurous time in his life. He did not miss the food at all. Nope. To this day he couldn’t look at a package of bologna without shuddering._

_“What the hell, Ivan? What is this?” Alfred demanded._

_“A surprise!” Ivan said, rocking back and forth on his feet with a big smile._

_“I don’t like your surprises.”_

_“Aw,” Ivan pouted dramatically. “You are no fun.”_

_Alfred poked the food with his fork, trying to make out what any of it was. From what he could tell there were beets, some carrots, meat of some unknown type, and about a gallon of mayonnaise. Seriously, what was with Ivan and mayonnaise?_

_“Seriously, what is this?” Alfred squinted._

_“It is traditional recipe from my country!” Ivan said proudly. “I would like to hear your opinions of it!”_

_That did make sense. Alfred was, after all, known for his love of food. And if he and Ivan were expected to start getting along, Alfred supposed that this would be the easiest way to find common ground. So, with a bit of hesitation, he took a bite of the strange food._

_At first, he tasted nothing. It was cold, whatever it was-_

_“ACK!” Alfred promptly spit it back out into the bowl with a gag. “UGH! WHAT THE HELL?”_

_The American froze, terrified he’d accidentally offended the other. His boss would murder him if he had ruined their strained relation with Russia all because of some food. His fear quickly dissipated when he heard Ivan laughing so hard he was wheezing, holding onto his sides as he began to double over from the force. Alfred felt an embarrassed red tinge fill his cheeks and he roughly shoved at Ivan._

_“You jerk! You tricked me!” Alfred pointed his fork accusingly._

_“Nyet, I would love to hear your opinion!” Ivan wiped the corner of his eye as he continued to laugh. “It is called Shuba!”_

_“Wait—you actually eat that?” Alfred’s mouth fell open._

_“Yes,” Ivan smirked mischievously. “It is an…er, acquired taste.”_

_“Is that why you cover it in so much mayo? To hide how bad it is?” Alfred snorted._

_Ivan leaned over and grabbed the fork out of Alfred’s hand. Their faces were a few inches apart and their eyes stared daringly towards each other. Alfred broke the gaze with a horrified expression when he saw Ivan shoved a bite of the food into his mouth, chewing with an obnoxious hum of approval._

_“God, you’re weird,” Alfred ran a hand through his hair._

_“Takes one to know one, da?”_

Breaking out of his brief trip down memory lane, Alfred saw something a little ways away from it that had his mouth watering. Well, two things, actually. 

One of those things was a large plate (a _very_ large plate) full of…dumplings*? He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. Without a single thought, Alfred piled at least thirty of them on his plate, already wanting to sink his teeth into one. He didn’t know what it was, but he already knew it would be delicious.

The second thing was some sort of creamy stew, filled with mushrooms and what Alfred assumed was beef. It looked so delicious that the American almost cried in joy. Whatever the hell this was, he was probably going to be the one to eat all of it. There were some mashed potatoes on the side, so Alfred assumed that they were supposed to go together. He scooped an extremely generous (even for him) amount of both on his plate, and quickly hurried back to the table before it spilled. 

The Asian food, dare he say it, would have to wait until he went back for seconds. He didn’t want his food to get cold, after all. He hadn’t even gotten to the dessert table yet!

“Bloody hell, Alfred,” Arthur shook his head. “How the hell aren’t you obese?”

“Because I’m super cool!” Alfred shrugged as he dug into plate number one, still eyeing the delicious stuff on plate number two, “And don’t worry Kiku, I just haven’t gotten to your food yet! I can’t wait to try it too!”

Kiku bowed his head, “Arigatou, America-san. May I ask what you brought?”

Alfred smiled, “I brought peach cobbler this year! It’s a lot like the pie that you liked from last time.”

“Oh, I like cobbler,” Matthew said softly.

“Thanks bro!” Alfred smiled. “I’ve noticed everyone seems to like my desserts more.”

“Same,” Arthur muttered. 

“Oh yeah, your scones are pretty good this year, eyebrows,” Arthur commented after biting into his own. “Did France help you?”

“No!” Arthur’s face turned red. “And don’t call me eyebrows!”

“Oh, must be a Christmas miracle then,” Alfred grinned.

Their conversation continued like this for a few more minutes while Alfred sucked in his food like vacuum. With a small sigh of satisfaction, Alfred pushed away plate number one and began to sink his teeth into plate number two. Everything on the plate was equally delicious until he got to the dumpling things and the weird beef and mushrooms. 

Alfred could feel saliva drip down his chin as he took a moment to appreciate its beauty. He bit into one of the dumplings and nearly toppled over from its flavor. 

It was amazing!

In a matter of seconds he’d consumed them all, and he almost wanted to cry in disappointment. Who knew when he’d ever see these again.

Focusing his attention on the beef and mushroom stuff, Alfred scooped some of it up with potatoes and took a bite. 

_Oh…holy mother of-_

“Alfred? Are you quite alright?” Arthur asked him.

The other three at the table were watching him with looks of concern, and Alfred realized he’d let out a loud and drawn out moan of pleasure. Some other countries were glancing at him from other tables, a few laughing behind hands, and Alfred felt himself blush a little in embarrassment. He just really liked food, okay?!

“Y-yeah!” Alfred smiled at Alfred. “This is just really good is all!”

Alfred looked down at it and raised an eyebrow, “What is it?”

“I don’t know, but I wish I did,” Alfred admitted, taking another heavenly bite. “I want this at every holiday from now on, and every fucking world meeting. I wish I knew who made it…”

“Well, you could go asking around?” Arthur offered. “If it’s that good then I’m sure whoever made it wouldn’t mind telling you.”

“The last time I tried that some people got offended that I thought it was theirs,” Alfred complained. “I mean, how the hell was I supposed to know sauerkraut wasn’t only eaten in Germany?”

Arthur rolled his eyes and continued eating. Alfred exchanged some small banter with Kiku and Matthew, enjoying the meal until he heard the sound of his fork scraping the plate.

“Ah damn it,” Alfred muttered, standing up. “I need more food, I’ll be right back!”

Alfred nearly jogged to the giant table of food, ready to dig into some of the Asian cuisine he knew and loved. Sure, it was different than the food he had back at home, but it was also _way_ better. After he got samples of pretty much everything in that section, including a pretty hefty helping of curry, he felt his gaze fall back to the plate of that mushroom and beef stuff.

A lot of it had been eaten, but there was still a decent amount left for him to enjoy. But, he left it alone because he would feel bad if someone didn’t get an opportunity to try it for themselves.

He sent a capitalism-filled glare at the borscht as he walked back to his table.

He finished plate number three in a record time, complimenting Kiku on his dish. Honestly, he would usually stop there because he hated to listen to Arthur complain about his bad eating habits. Like he was one to nag him about that--his diet wasn’t much better. The last time he’d visited the Brit’s house there had been Indian take-out containers _everywhere._

However, Alfred continued to find himself staring longingly at that beef and mushroom dish, simply left alone in the midst of the rest of the food. After a while, Alfred realized that everyone was pretty much done eating.

“Ya know…I think I’m gonna grab one last plate before dessert,” Alfred said, sprinting towards the dish. “It’s Christmas season anyway!”

“Blimey, Alfred!” Arthur cried out behind him. “You need to have some self control- What the hell are you doing?”

Alfred dropped the large dish onto the table, dumping the side of potatoes in, and ate straight out of it with a fork.

“Nobody else was gonna eat it, and it would be unfortunate to let it go to waste!” Alfred stated with a mouthful of delicious, godly ambrosia. “I’m just helping everyone out!”

“Is it really that good?” Arthur crossed his arms.

Alfred held out a fork for him to try, and grinned when the Brit’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Oh, wow,” Arthur stated softly.

~*~

To this day, Alfred had never experienced something so painful as when he finished the beef and mushroom dish. 

Months later, the American was still dreaming about the delicious flavor and warmth that food had brought him. The Christmas dinner he’d had with his boss had been bland in comparison, and he found himself craving it more than the weed he’d craved during the sixties. But er…he doesn’t like to talk about that.

Alfred had never been so excited for a world meeting his life. He knew that the odds of that dish being there were slim, but he was still hopeful. This time around, Alfred actually brought green bean casserole instead of dessert. He hoped that whoever made that delicious creamy beef stuff would enjoy his meal as well, but they probably wouldn’t. It wasn’t nearly as good. 

As Alfred went to set down his food on a warmer for it to be eaten after the meeting, he caught sight of Ivan setting down a pot of borscht. What was that guy’s deal and borscht, anyway? Why did he insist on bringing it? Sure, some people ate it, but most people didn’t because they were afraid he’d drugged it. 

“Ah, _privyet_ America,” Ivan smiled. “I see you’ve brought another one of your strange creations?”

“Like you’re one to talk,” Alfred muttered. “You probably eat dogs or something.”

“Not anymore,” Ivan’s smile widened, but his eyes flashed warningly.

And with that, Alfred skedaddled. That had been a low blow, even for him, and he wasn’t about to start another war. 

The meeting went by fairly smoothly with only one small fight between England and France. The usual. By the time the lunch break rolled around Alfred was starving. As he perused the food table, which was a great deal smaller than last time, his eyes were wide open in search for his beloved meat and mushroom ambrosia. By the time he passed a bowl of sauerkraut and sausages he realized that it was not there, and he couldn’t help the feeling of deep disappointment from coursing through his veins. 

Inhaling and puffing his chest out when he realized he’d begun to slouch, he continued on and tried not to think about his true love.

Passing the borscht with a hateful glare, Alfred looked around for something else appetizing. There weren’t nearly as many options as before, but nothing looked too bad. He saw something that looked like a roll of cabbage on top of tomatoes*, and with a nonchalant shrug threw one on his plate. 

Alfred ended up sitting with only Matthew for company, which was all right by him. His brother was pretty cool. For the most part they ate in silence, mostly because Alfred was too busy eating to say much. The meeting still had a ways to go before it was completely finished and he needed his strength the survive Germany’s power point lectures. 

“Hey Alfred, have you tried the cabbage rolls?” Matthew asked quietly, sipping a cup of coffee.

“Not yet. Why? Did you make them?” Alfred asked through a mouthful of potatoes.

“No, but they are really good,” Matthew hummed. “They have meat inside.”

Alfred’s eyes widened as he looked down at the one on his plate. With hesitant curiosity, Alfred took a bite of one. For a moment, Alfred stopped breathing, and when he finally did his voice escaped in a breathy whine. 

They were _good._

Matthew giggled, “Told you.”

“WHO-” Alfred nearly choked on a mouthful of cabbage. “I don’t even _like_ cabbage!”

~*~

Alfred ate twenty of those cabbage rolls before he deemed himself full, and even then he stared longingly at the few that were left. They could not compare to the mushroom and beef ambrosia he’d eaten before, but they were probably second best. Plus they were healthy so he didn’t have to worry about his diet! Dude, he wished he knew who had made them so he could kiss them.

They had been so delicious that Alfred nearly missed the way Ivan was staring at him. He wished the guy didn’t do that. It was creepy. What did he even want? 

Alfred raised an eyebrow at the other from across the room and Ivan jumped, startled, before frowning and looking away. Maybe he was just jealous that he didn’t get to enjoy all the cabbage rolls like him. Actually, the guy was so lame he probably didn’t even like them.

Whatever. More for him!

~*~

The next food adventure occurred during the next world meeting, but the difference was that this one was held in Russia.

Generally, the hosting country provided more than one type of dish, unless their economy sucked like Spain’s. Although Spain still brought like, fifty differen- _Anyway._ Alfred was not looking forward to Russia’s cuisine whatsoever. He didn’t trust it at all, and not just because it was Ivan who made it!

“Come on Alfred, Russian food is usually pretty good,” Matthew urged him when Alfred refused to eat. “At least from what I’ve had.”

“The last time that guy gave me food as a _peace offering_ I almost died!” Alfred muttered. “It was so weird! It was like…pink and tasted like dying fish!”

“Oh, I think I see what you’re talking about…” Matthew looked over at the table of food. “It looks kind of like that gelatin salad you make sometimes.”

Alfred gagged dramatically.

“I mean, why does _everything_ have to be covered in a three inch layer of mayonnaise? I love that stuff just as much as the next guy, but-“

“Like _you’re_ one to talk,” Matthew rolled his eyes. “You douse everything in ketchup.”

He didn’t see the point in that statement. Ketchup was delicious.

In the end, he did end up going to the table of food. There were foods from other countries as well, as was the custom, but there were a lot more unfamiliar dishes than usual. He had to admit that some of them didn’t look horrible, but he did not know which ones were Ivan’s. He saw the borscht, as usual, and that weird pink salad stuff that he vowed to never eat again. Nope. 

He was about to turn around to go back with the small amount of food he had on his plate when he saw it.

With a dramatic inhale that had others looking at him, Alfred nearly toppled over as he ran towards the food.

“MY LONG LOST LOVE!” Alfred cried out, dumping mashed potatoes and the beef and mushroom ambrosia on his plate. “WE MEET AGAIN AT LAST!”

Alfred broke out in a chorus of Vera Lynn’s version of “we’ll meet again”, scooping out food until he couldn’t fit anymore on the plate. Matthew snickered behind him while a few other countries spoke amongst themselves in amusement. Alfred also saw some more of the cabbage rolls, so he threw one of those on for good measure before heading back to his table.

“Do you two need to be left alone?” Arthur questioned as Alfred stuffed his face.

“Mhm,” Alfred almost cried. “I’ve missed this so much!”

Alfred ate the food with so much gratitude in his heart that he didn’t even remember going back for seconds. As he made an impressive dent in plate number two, he felt a hand on his shoulder that was all too familiar. If he didn’t already know who it was, the nervous expressions on Matthew and Arthur’s faces would have given it away.

“Are you having a good time, America?” Ivan asked with a wide smile on his face.

Alfred frowned, “I was until you showed up.”

Ivan raised an eyebrow, “That’s a very silly thing for you to say when you are in my country.”

Alfred shrugged off the other’s hold on him, going right back into devouring his beloved food. The stuff was so good it distracted him from how much he disliked the Russian.

“Is there something we can help you with, Russia?” Arthur asked, clearing his throat.

Russia tilted his head as he watched Alfred eat with impressive vigor, _“Nyet,_ just checking up on how everyone is doing. It looks like this one is having a good time, yes?”

Matthew clasped a hand over his mouth when a giggle escaped, earning a glare from Alfred. Arthur smirked as the American turned to Ivan.

“I’m trying to eat here,” Alfred pouted. “You’re making the love of my life taste sour.”

Ivan raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth to say something, but shut it after a moment of thought. For a brief moment, pain seemed to flash behind his eyes, and if Alfred had blinked he would’ve missed it. Plastering a forced smile on his face once again, he patted Alfred’s head and walked away. The three nations watched him leave and did not speak until the other was out of sight. 

“That was weird,” Alfred muttered. 

“Indeed,” Arthur replied.

~*~

Alfred was beginning to think something was up when that food returned for the next world meeting. Not that he didn’t appreciate it, but whoever was making it seemed to realize that he liked it. Why they didn’t just tell him they made it, he didn’t know. The cabbage rolls were gone, but those dumpling things he liked so much had returned, and he wanted to drown himself in the savory goodness. 

He also noticed the way that the Baltics had begun staring at him when they thought he wasn’t looking, and the way that Ukraine would smile and wave at him with a giggle. He seemed to have even caught Belarus’ attention, and it wasn’t hostile. Granted, it wasn’t really that friendly either.

“What did you do?” Arthur demanded, referring to the countries a few tables away that were watching him.

“Nothing!” Alfred whined with a mouthful of dumplings. “I swear!”

The American nearly shrieked when he felt a gentle poke to the shoulder, and turned around in relief when he saw it was just Katyusha—Ukraine’s representative.

“U-um, excuse me Mr. America,” she said with a kind smile. “Would you like to try some pryanik?”

She held out a small plate with what looked like sugar-covered cookies, and his mouth salivated from the sight. He noticed Ivan being placated over at the table he had been sitting at with her, obviously not taking kindly to the fact that she was speaking to Alfred. However, if Alfred didn’t know better, he’d say Ivan looked a bit nervous. 

Taking the plate carefully, Alfred sent the girl an enthusiastic smile. 

“Would I!” he exclaimed, shoving one into his mouth.

For a moment it seemed like the entire world was watching him in silence. It took Alfred a moment to register what was happening inside of his mouth, but when he did he slumped in blissful delight.

“Oh. My. _God.”_ he mumbled, taking another one off the plate. “This is the best fucking gingerbread I’ve ever eaten in my life.”

Katyusha giggled behind her hand, glancing towards Ivan who had stopped glaring to stare with wide eyes.

“Did you make these?” Alfred asked her.

“No, I am not allowed to say who made them,” she smiled. “But there are a lot more over on the table if you want some!”

Alfred pouted when the other walked back over to sit with her siblings, who were both staring at him curiously. He had this weird and unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach, like there was something he should know. The nice aroma and flavor of the cookies made up for it though! Those things were like experiencing Christmas in one bite, and his own gingerbreads paled in comparison. 

After grabbing a few more of the cookies (he didn’t want to be stingy and eat them all) he felt Ivan’s gaze on him. Looking up he saw that the other was still watching him with a strange expression on his face. Almost stoic. It was a bit unsettling, especially when their eyes met. Ivan did not turn around until his sister began to speak with him, and even then he would glance back. 

Weird.

~*~

The world meeting this time was a lot smaller than usual, since it was more of a…selective country meeting. Not to mention the weather this year in England was surprisingly cold. Everything on the food table was soup. Alfred didn’t mind since the weather was nippy, but it was hard to carry so many bowls back to his table. This time there wasn’t any borscht, which Alfred thought was a bit odd, but it wasn’t like he’d miss it. Instead there were some familiar soups and some not so familiar soups. All of them were equally appealing. 

After grabbing bowls of some bisque from France, pea soup from England that looked surprisingly edible, Minestrone from Italy, and a pretty big bowl of Chinese soup dumplings, Alfred spotted something interesting. Tilting his head he looked down at the soup, not really sure what to make of it. It looked like something that would either be delicious, or really fucking nasty. It was a bit of a mustard color with little chunks of onion and meat, and Alfred had absolutely no idea what to make of it.*

Yolo.

Arthur’s eyebrows rose when he saw the last bowl of soup that Alfred brought to his spot next to the Englishman. Rather than eat at smaller tables like they usually did, all of the nations present sat a single large table. There weren’t very many of them this time, after all. Matthew sat on his other side with a bowl of bisque, a piece of bread beside it. The Canadian leaned over to peer at the strange soup, curious as to what it was.

“It smells kind of like pickles,” Matthew commented. “What is it?”

“No idea,” Alfred said, swallowing a mouthful of pea soup. “Hey, your soup is pretty good this time, Arthur! You sure France isn’t helping?”

Arthur glared at him before turning away with a huff, “Actually, it was Ireland.”

Alfred snickered, “Well, thank him for me, will ya?”

Glancing around the table Alfred saw the other countries eating their respective soups as well. China was eating his soup dumplings, arguing with Japan about who knew what. Japan was trying to be respectful while telling China to go fuck himself, drowning his sorrows in some of the bisque France made. Germany was being force fed Minestrone by Italy, who was threatening to cry. Spain was happily chatting to France, debating which one of them influenced Veneziano’s ridiculously delicious cooking skills more. 

Turning his head towards the center he saw Russia sitting with a couple of bowls of soup that Alfred couldn’t see, staring down at them with a stoic expression. Picking up a spoonful to eat Alfred realized that Ivan had actually picked his own homemade chicken noodle soup! Wondering what the other’s reaction would be, he leaned onto his elbows to stare. Ivan took a bite, leaning back with risen eyebrows, and then tilted his head and poked at it. Alfred’s eyebrow twitched when he realized that the other was trying to find ways to criticize it.

“Hey, try that soup and tell me if it’s good,” Matthew nudged Alfred with his elbow. 

Turning his attention towards the strange pickle-smelling soup, he shrugged and took a bite. His initial reaction was recoiling in disgust, not prepared for the sour taste that hit his tongue. After making a revolted expression, Alfred let the flavor sit on his tongue for a moment. 

Interesting.

“Hm,” Alfred thought for a moment, taking another bite. “Ya know…this isn’t half bad.”

“What does it taste like?” Matthew asked curiously.

“It tastes sort of like sauerkraut,” Alfred said, looking in it. “Try some!”

Matthew did, making a weird face, “Hm…I’m not sure I like it.”

“Really? I mean it’s different, but I think it’s pretty tasty!” Alfred smiled, eating more of it. “It’s nice since it’s so cold and rainy outside.”

It was true. There was something about this soup that made the weather more bearable, and Alfred wondered what exactly it was. Maybe it was that most of the soups present were thick and creamy, whereas this one wasn’t. It was hearty for sure, but it didn’t feel like he was eating an entire cow after only one bowl. It was comforting in ways that most soups were not, and it was unique! 

“It needs something though, but I’m not sure what,” Alfred poked at the soup, pursing his lip in thought.

He looked over when Matthew nudged him, “Hey…Russia is looking at you kind of funny.”

Sure enough, Ivan was staring at him with a very strange expression between annoyance, curiosity, and embarrassment. The Russian simply set his spoon down on the table and leaned back, still watching. Alfred raised an eyebrow and gestured to the chicken soup.

“It’s gonna get cold,” he said.

Ivan simply smiled, _“Nyet,_ it is gone.”

Alfred stood a bit and looked over into the other’s bowl, and sure enough…the soup was all gone. 

Huh.

“You liked it?” Alfred asked, eyes wide.

Ivan smiled brightly, “It was tolerable.”

Alfred nodded, a slight pink tinge on his cheeks, and sat back down. He ate more of the weird sauerkraut soup. It really did need _something,_ but anything he thought of he knew would be gross. Ketchup would make it taste weird, mustard would make it more sour than it already was, hot sauce…well…it wouldn’t make it bad, but it wouldn’t help either. Matthew and Arthur seemed to have grown extremely quiet, no doubt from being peered at by the weirdo across the table. Alfred just ignored him, finding it fairly easy to do so. He’d had a lot of previous experience.

That didn’t stop the relief he felt when the other stood to take his bowl away.

Matthew and Arthur’s shoulders sagged in relief, both returning to eating their soups happily. Alfred continued to sip and poke his soup. It really was a mind boggler…but he was sure if he thought hard enough he’d know what was missing. Cheese sounded kind of good, but it wasn’t that necessarily. He needed something that would compliment it, not just make it too rich to consume. He briefly considered milk, but that didn’t sound quite right either.

He nearly shrieked when a gloved hand slammed a container down in front of him. Matthew let out a quiet meep while Arthur placed a hand over his heart as he steadied his breathing. A bit annoyed, Alfred looked behind him to see Ivan staring down at him.

_“Smetana.”_

“What did you call me?” Alfred’s lip curled a bit.

 _“Nyet, yebanko,”_ Ivan rolled his eyes, “You should put _smetena_ in soup.”

Alfred simply stared at him for a moment before looking down at the container in front of him. He reached over and opened the container, peering down at something that looked like yoghurt. Tilting his head he dipped his finger in, earning groans of protest from the three around him, and tasted it.

“OH SHIT!” Alfred exclaimed. “SOUR CREAM!”

Matthew shielded his soup from the thrashing American while Arthur just sighed in annoyance, trying to eat his own soup in peace. Alfred dumped a heaping spoonful of sour cream into the soup and thrust the container back at Ivan, who took it and folded his arms expectantly. The American stirred it around before tasting it. Relief and pleasant tingles flooded his system.

“Ah, that’s much better,” Alfred smiled.

Matthew tasted a bit, and nodded his approval as well, “It _is_ a lot better with sour cream.”

Mouth open to thank Ivan for his helpful tip, Alfred turned around and noticed the other had disappeared. 

“Wha- where did he go?” Alfred thought out loud.

~*~

Alfred had never been super close with Feliks, and he didn’t really have any intention of changing that, but he was very grateful for him during the next world meeting. Apparently those stuffed potatoes that he’d loved from a few months back were Lithuanian Cepelinai. He had been sure to compliment Toris on his exceptional cooking skills, asking why he’d never made that recipe for him when they had lived together. The other simply stated that he hadn’t been sure if Alfred would accept the style of cooking, but if he liked the Cepelinai that much he would make them for Alfred specifically. 

Needless to say, Alfred was in a very good mood. So good, in fact, that when he noticed Ivan watching him from the corner of the lunchroom, he responded with a friendly wave. The Russian blinked before slowly raising his hand and returning the gesture, a confused smile on his own face. It wasn’t the first time Ivan had ever exchanged greetings with him, but it was one of the few times he did so without an ulterior motive. It was nice. 

Alfred couldn’t help but think that Ivan looked nice when he smiled genuinely.

~*~

A few months later, an emergency meeting was held between America, China, Russia, England, and Germany. This time--because the gathering was so small--the lunches were not provided, and each representative had to bring their own meals. Alfred, of course, brought his own lunch of McDonald’s. Honestly, he might have actually made something, but he had been so busy he couldn’t find the time. As usual.

He glanced over at the other’s meals a bit longingly, wishing for something more substantial than fake chicken and soggy hamburger buns. 

Not that he disliked McDonald’s! Of course not, that would be ridiculous! It was an American staple, after all! It just…maybe…needed some…revamping. 

Alfred glanced over and saw Ivan sitting alone at a corner table, eating some sort of soup. It wasn’t anything too weird looking, but it didn’t look very appetizing either. The other seemed a bit lost, obviously just as exhausted about the meeting as everyone else. No one wanted to be there. 

In a brief moment of madness and delusion, Alfred stood and walked over to the other. Plopping himself and his fifteen Big Macs down at the table, Alfred nodded his head briefly in greeting. Ivan sat back, a frown on his face.

“What do you want?” Ivan asked half-heartedly.

“I’m sick of listening to Arthur bitch to Ludwig,” Alfred stated.

It was a good excuse.

Ivan hummed in agreement, going back to eating his soup. Alfred watched as he chewed on his burger, catching a light scent of seafood in the air. It wasn’t unpleasant.

“What are you eating?” Alfred broke the silence.

 _“Ukha,”_ Ivan replied simply.

Alfred rolled his eyes. He knew that Ivan knew he had no idea what _Ukha_ was, and that Ivan was messing with him. Then again, he’d gladly let himself be driven crazy by the Russian if it meant he didn’t have to watch another one of Ludwig’s Powerpoints. 

The silence dragged on with only brief slurps from Ivan as he sipped the broth from his weirdly clear soup. Alfred listened as the straw in his drink pulled up air bubbles from his soda, and he stared over at a different table. That table had napkins. Why, he didn’t know. What he did know was that all of the tables deserved to have equal rights, and they all deserved to be equipped with napkins-

“Would you like to try some?”

Alfred jumped out of his heroic thoughts and blinked at Ivan.

“What?”

Alfred looked down to see Ivan push the bowl of… _Ukha_ towards him. 

“Uh…how do I know you haven’t laced it with bleach?” he asked pointedly.

He knew that was unlikely, but he had an image to maintain, damn it!

“Bleach would not kill you,” Ivan commented dryly. “Only briefly incapacitate.” 

“I’m not eating it!”

“Suit yourself,” Ivan shrugged, his eyebrow twitching briefly.

There was a long moment of awkward silence. Alfred tried to drown out his feelings by sipping his cola as obnoxiously as he could, but it didn’t work. He _really_ wanted to know what the hell Ivan was eating. Besides, it obviously wasn’t laced with poison since the guy was still eating.

Speaking of Ivan, the other looked troubled. He had already been in an iffy mood, but now he just seemed upset. The type of annoyed where he actually looked angry instead of eerily pleased. Had Alfred said something that rubbed him the wrong way? Maybe refusing his offer of food was an insult in Russian culture or something…

He _was_ curious.

“Alright fine, hand it over,” Alfred mumbled, slamming down his cola.

Ivan raised an eyebrow before pushing the soup towards Alfred once more. He poked at the soup for a long moment, trying to figure out what everything was.

“What’s in it?” Alfred asked curiously. “Is that fish?”

 _“Da,”_ Ivan leaned against his hand with a blank expression. “It is fish and root vegetables.”

Alfred shrugged, inwardly saying YOLO, and took a big bite. 

“Yo, hold up,” Alfred swallowed. “This tastes like chicken soup, if the chicken was fish.”

“Well, I guess it is,” Ivan thought for a moment. “It is fisherman’s soup, so it is made with any fish and root vegetables that are in season.”

“So it tastes different depending on when you make it?” Alfred asked curiously, subconsciously taking another bite. 

“Yes,” Ivan nodded, tilting his head. “You seem to like it.”

Alfred paused mid-bite before looking down at the soup, “Um…”

Ivan snickered to himself as he stood from the table, “You can have the rest. I am finished.”

Alfred stared at the other as he walked away, his scarf billowing behind him. He ignored his sudden desire to grab the fabric, wanting to know if it was as soft as it looked. Where had that scarf even come from, and why did he _always_ wear it? So many questions…

Looking back down at the soup, Alfred was unsure what to do. After a few moments of inwardly arguing with himself, he decided that it would be shameful to waste perfectly good food. 

He was a bit disappointed when his spoon scraped the bowl. 

~*~

Alfred scowled at the smiling man across the table. 

Ivan simply sat there, a disturbing smile plastered onto his face, humming to himself as they waited for their bosses to arrive. Apparently, America and Russia weren’t on good enough terms, and they needed to negotiate some plans for the future…etc. Boring.

“What the hell are you smiling about?” Alfred huffed. “You can’t be having that much fun.”

 _“Nyet,_ this is extremely dull,” Ivan commented cheerily. “I was imagining something much more entertaining.”

“Oh?” Alfred’s interest was peaked. “What’cha thinkin’ about then?”

“I was imagining what it might feel like to crush someone’s heart in bare hands.”

Alfred rolled his eyes. Once upon a time, he might have actually believed Ivan—and perhaps under certain circumstances Ivan probably _did_ think about that. He was actually a really scary dude when he wanted to be, and his history was long and full of all sorts of dark things Alfred didn’t want to think about. But he knew better than to believe everything Ivan said, especially when it was directed at him. The Russian loved to get under his skin, just like he loved to get under Ivan’s.

“I have a question,” Ivan said airily.

“Hm?” Alfred hummed, stifling a yawn.

“Do you know what _Stroganoff_ is?” Ivan asked curiously.

“Stroke-a-what-now?” Alfred made a face.

Ivan leaned back as his happy expression fell, “Ah, that does explain a lot. Do you know what _Pelmeni_ is?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Alfred leaned forward. “What is a Pelmini? Is it Italian?”

“Not even close.”

Ivan simply stared with a frown on his face, not answering when Alfred asked questions. Alfred didn’t know why his answers had upset the other so much, but the troubled expression Ivan wore was unsettling. He did not smile once the rest of the day. 

That night, Alfred lay awake pondering these thoughts.

~*~

Alfred’s birthday had come and gone just as quickly as it did every year. Several nations came to celebrate it with him, offering small gifts and congratulations for another year of life. Everything was great! He had no idea how he could have had a better birthday.

And then he opened his refrigerator.

Alfred stared down at the glass container in his hands, reading the note taped to the top.

_Happy birthday, Alfred._

_I hope that you enjoy this birthday gift. Sorry I could not give it to you in person._

_See you at the next world meeting._

Alfred tilted his head curiously, opening the container to see what was inside. 

Oh sweet Carolina. It was the beef and mushroom dish.

~*~

“-So whoever it is that made it _knows_ that I like it!”

Arthur hummed on the other end of the line, probably not paying attention to Alfred’s excitement. Alfred just didn’t understand. He was gifted with that sweet, glorious, heavenly nectar by the same person who made it for the world meeting all those months ago, and he was ten seconds away from having a heart attack. 

“You are rather obvious with your affection, Alfred,” Arthur said distractedly. “Everyone at the meeting saw you declare your love.”

“Yeah, but they _made it for me_ Arthur!” Alfred hung upside down on his couch. “They cared enough to go through the trouble of cooking me food for my birthday! I have to know who it was so I can return the favor!”

“Then go ask people if they know who made it,” Arthur suggested. 

“Arthur,” Alfred groaned. “You know that no one can _ask!_ Do you _not_ remember the pasta origin incident? Or the sauerkraut incident? Or the pizza incident? Or the-“

“I BLOODY REMEMBER, ALFRED,” Arthur sighed. “Look, I have to get work done-“

“Oh, sure bro!” Alfred laughed. “Sorry, I guess I lost track of time! I’ll let you go now.”

“Yes, take care, Alfred,” Arthur said.

“Later dude!” Alfred answered before hanging up.

Letting his phone fall onto his carpeted floor, Alfred groaned loudly. Arthur wasn’t any help whatsoever, but at least he got some of his thoughts out his system. He was still flipping out over his birthday gift, and he wasn’t any closer to knowing who gave it to him. 

Alfred shot up, eyes wide.

It had to be someone from the party.

In seconds Alfred had paper and a pen in his hands, jotting down a list of the people he’d invited. It might have been easier to make a list of people he _hadn’t_ invited, so instead he stopped and began naming the people who had actually showed up. 

It took him a while, but after writing about fifty names, one jumped out more than the rest.

 _Ivan Braginski_.

Alfred was a bit perturbed by the strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. Was he getting sick? Was there trouble afoot? He didn’t think so, but the feeling was definitely unsettling. He vaguely remembered feeling this way a few years prior.

He had been taken aboard the ISS to take _many_ space photos for his social media accounts. That wasn’t actually the reason he’d been sent there, but that was what he ended up doing for the majority of his stay. That, and keep one eye out for Ivan. 

The Russian had also been sent to the station for similar reasons. At first, Alfred had protested, not wanting to spend four weeks with the man inside of a cramped space thousands of feet above the earth itself. Ivan had voiced similar opinions, albeit in a bit of a friendlier tone, but both were ignored.

And what Alfred had thought would be the worst trip to space in history ended up being one of the most enjoyable experiences in his life. Had Ivan been asked how he’d felt about it he would have said the same thing.

Instead of spending weeks glaring and cryptically insulting one another, the two ended up spending most of their time laughing and fawning over the spectacular view of their home planet. They made it a game to announce when their respective countries were in view, and joked about spying on the others. Alfred would yell at England whenever the country was in view, and Ivan would laugh every time. The Russian would call out random countries that came into view and would ask them to become one, and Alfred would laugh because he could hear the teasing in the other’s voice. Ivan had even traded his dehydrated ice-cream sandwich for Alfred’s brownie while they floated upside down and stared out at the stars. Or had they been right side up? Alfred wasn’t sure…it was really hard to tell up there.

They had also been given sleeping areas right next to each other (not that there was really any room anywhere else). The last time they had gone to sleep, knowing they would have to leave when they woke up, Ivan bid Alfred good night in English. After the other had drifted to sleep, Alfred returned the favor in his best attempt at Russian.

Alfred blinked, his hand crumpling the paper with the names.

He glanced over at the American flag hanging on his wall. It was old and had a long line of stitches holding it together. Ivan had once hated his flag, saying that it’s appearance was gaudy and offensive to his gaze. He had never physically disrespected it, but his words were harsh and unforgiving. Alfred had hated him then.

But Ivan had not so much as mention his flag in decades; except for the day Alfred was skating across an ice skating rink with his flag waving behind him during the Winter Olympics. It had been a dare from Gilbert, who had hoped to see an annoyed Ivan chasing him down while Alfred screeched about capitalism. None of that happened. Instead, Alfred ended up stumbling and skating over his flag, ripping the fabric in half, and then falling flat on his face. He had never felt so humiliated in his life, but before he could get up and skate with his tail between his legs, he felt a warm hand helping him get up. 

When anyone had asked him, Ivan would say that he helped Alfred because his country had hosted the Olympics that year. It was a good excuse, but what they didn’t know was that Ivan had actually helped Alfred stitch his flag back together when he noticed that the American actually sucked at needlework. He had even offered to get it cleaned. At the time, Alfred had thought the kindness was because he was host and he was simply being courteous and polite, but now he wasn’t so sure. 

Alfred stared at the stitches running along the length of the fabric, noticing how neat and even they were. Ivan could have just half-assed it, but he hadn’t. He had actually spent the entire skating competition carefully fixing the flag, only stopping to watch when his country’s skaters performed their routine. 

A few decades before, the Russian would have given anything to see that flag ripped to pieces…so what had changed? And how had Alfred never noticed?

~*~

“Alfred, for heaven’s sake sit _down!”_

Alfred fell down onto his chair when Arthur yanked his arm, stopping him in his anxious pacing. The Brit was staring at him in concern and slight annoyance, and Alfred beat his hand against his chest repetitively to regulate his heartbeat. It was annoyingly quick today. Must be the weather. Yeah.

It had absolutely nothing to do with a certain Russian invading his thoughts.

“What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” Arthur demanded. “Did you drink too much soda again?”

“No!” Alfred bit out, a tad offended. “I-I’m just…ready for this meeting to be over!”

“And that’s why your pacing like an expectant father?”

Alfred stuck out his tongue, crossing his arms with a huff. He slumped in his chair, his heart still beating abnormally fast. He nearly jumped out of his chair when the door to the meeting room opened, and he turned with wide eyes to look who had arrived.

He promptly slumped when it was just Ludwig, inhaling and exhaling shakily.

Alfred turned to see Arthur watching him expectantly.

“Alfred, did you prank someone again?”

“No!”

“Then why are you watching the door like the Krampus is about to come through?”

_”THE KRAMPUS IS REAL?”_

Arthur proceeded to spend fifteen minutes trying to coax Alfred from under the table. The other country representatives either laughed or groaned at his behavior. Joke’s on them! If the Krampus actually walked into the room, he would NOT be the one to be dragged off and punished! Hell no! Alfred would not normally be so easily terrified, but he had been on the verge of a panic attack for a few weeks. The mention of the Krampus was the last straw. 

He heard Arthur stomp his foot, biting out insults and yelling at him to get out and sit down at the table like an adult. Ah, just like the old days. Alfred shook his head, rocking back and forth while holding his knees. He couldn’t do this. _Was_ he having a panic attack? That would make sense, he supposed, although that was very strange. He had never actually had one before, and he wasn’t sure what to expect. Despite his irregular and trembling breaths, he was not hyperventilating. So, was it something else?

Alfred made a strange face when he heard a new voice speak, almost chidingly at Arthur. He heard something about being mean, and for Arthur to move out of the way. Alfred’s eyes were wide open and staring ahead of him, but he did not register the other man crouching down and looking beneath the table for several moments. Then, he registered pale skin, thick, wavy, dirty blonde hair, and a pair of surprisingly kind lavender orbs staring into his own baby blues. 

_”Alfred.”_

Alfred swallowed as a dark tinge slowly rising to his cheeks. He wanted to say something- _anything._ Ivan took the silence as a troubling sign and proceeded to crawl under the table as well. Being even larger than Alfred was, he barely fit, but he managed with a few grunts of discomfort and annoyance. The American barely registered Arthur’s appalled voice yelling at the two of them, and Yao’s loud laughs a few feet away.

Ivan looked at Alfred with an amused expression.

“What are you doing under the table?” he asked mockingly. “Are you really so afraid of the Krampus?”

“NO!” Alfred cried out defensively. 

“Then why are you hiding?”

“Because-“ Alfred cut himself off. “This is clearly a new wave of meme! I’m just following what’s in style!”

Ivan giggled, raising an eyebrow, “It is in style to hide beneath tables at meetings?”

“Yes!” Alfred nodded frantically. “Gotta stay hip with the kids, ya know!”

Ivan shook his head with an eye roll, crawling back out from the table. Alfred nearly fainted when Ivan actually extended his hand to help Alfred out as well. Before he could change his mind, Alfred took the offered appendage.

He almost made a very unmanly squeak when his chest hit Ivan’s, but managed to contain it as the Russian apologized. He pat Alfred on the head encouragingly and walked over to his seat beside China.

“Well, it’s about bloody time!” Arthur huffed when Alfred walked over and took his seat. “Are you quite finished?”

Alfred flipped him off and slumped onto the table with a sour expression. 

~*~

Alfred may as well have just grabbed the container of the beef and mushroom dish and eaten straight out of it with a fork. He piled so much of the stuff into two bowls it was almost comical. In his defense, he needed something to make him forget that he’d spent two hours under a table, and that literally _everyone_ was teasing him for it. 

Balancing the two bowls in his arms while holding a coke in one hand and keeping a plate of dumplings from falling off his head, Alfred began to tiptoe to his table. 

He froze when he heard a giggle.

Turning around he saw Katyusha, Ukraine’s representative, and he raised an eyebrow as she smiled at him with a hand covering her mouth. Natalya was standing behind her, an amused expression on her own face. 

“What?” Alfred demanded half-heartedly. “Come to make fun of me too? Just let me eat away my embarrassment.”

“By using big brother’s Stroganoff?” Natalya snickered while Katyusha gasped.

Alfred did a double take, his eyes widening.

_“What did you say?”_

Katyusha whispered something in rapid-fire Russian to her sister, looking around in fear. Alfred caught something about not being supposed to say anything, but speaking Russian wasn’t exactly his forte. 

Natalya ignored Katyusha and pointed to the bowls of the heavenly nectar Alfred loved so much. Smirking wickedly she said, _”That,_ is Ivan’s.”

Alfred laughed loudly, “No it’s not! The borscht is! He always brings borscht!”

Katyusha blushed, “A-actually, that’s mine.”

“Say _what now?”_

Natalya held up her own bowl of Stroganoff, making a show of eating a mouthful. She hummed pleasantly, watching him with a mischievously evil smile. 

“Big brother is a _very_ good cook,” she praised. “And he spent _so_ much time making it for you! You should have seen his face when he realized you love it so much.”

 _”Natalya!”_ Katyusha hissed, eyes wide.

_”I have a question,” Ivan had asked. “Do you know what Stroganoff is?”_

Alfred’s arms gave out, sending all of his food toppling towards the ground. He couldn’t even gather enough brain cells to try and catch them, and instead stared down at their spilled remains while trying to process this new information. Seconds passed—no, minutes—he wasn’t sure.

“What is going on?”

Alfred screeched and whipped around, his gaze falling onto the surprised form of Ivan. The Russian was carrying his own plate of food, looking at Alfred like he’d scared him. Then, his gaze fell onto the food that had spilled, and then to his sisters accusingly. Katyusha cried and began rambling out apologies while Natalya cackled loudly. Ivan bit something out and the two left—Katyusha with tears in her eyes, and Natalya grinning at the two of them like they were the highest form of amusement.

Alfred barely registered the plate of food being shoved into his hands, glancing down to see Ivan now crouched down and trying to clean up some of the mess Alfred had made. Alfred squeaked and backed away, his hands shaking and his eyes wide as they stared. Ivan’s thick hair was shielding his eyes, but the frown on his face was _very_ obvious. 

Gathering his wits, Alfred set the plate of food down at a table and grabbed some paper towels. It _was_ his mess, after all. What kind of hero would he be if he just let someone else clean it up? He silently crouched down beside Ivan, trying to ignore the rapid beating of his heart. His mind flashed back to a time, ages ago…

_”Oh dear, I’m so sorry!”_

_Ivan looked down at his dark green coat, the gold embroidered fabric now damp. Alfred felt his stomach drop at the sight, knowing that the coat was probably worth more than his entire country. Okay, maybe not, but he was sure it would take ages to replace! Besides, he had absolutely no idea how this guy worked yet. Would he hold this over Alfred’s head for years to come, or maybe just outright demand a replacement and threaten to invade his country if the American didn’t comply. He had enough with England micromanaging everything already, and the last thing he needed was _another_ country trying to control his life. _

_Especially if that country’s representative was Ivan. The man was very tall—much taller than he was, although Alfred knew he still had room to grow. Yes. Despite Ivan’s lack of social skills, he was a very impressive country. That was what his boss saw to be beneficial, after all. They would need all the help they could get when they declared war on England, and who better to help than Russia?_

_And now Alfred had completely ruined it by dumping an entire bottle of Russian alcohol onto the gift-giver himself._

_Alfred’s hands reached out to try and brush the liquid off, but he stopped himself before his hands could touch the fabric. He wasn’t worthy to soil something so nice with his clumsy hands, especially after damaging it like he just had. Alfred looked down, an embarrassed blush on his cheeks and frustrated tears prickling his eyes. He closed them and willed the tears away, his hands clenched into fists as he spoke._

_“I will pay you back! Please don’t get angry!”_

_“Angry?”_

_Alfred looked up to see an amused expression Ivan’s face. He blinked and frowned, confused._

_“It was only accident!” Ivan said cheerily, patting at his coat with a gloved hand. “And no harm done! Vodka does not stain! See?”_

_Alfred looked down where he’d spilled and let out a cry of surprise. There was no stain---just a slightly damp area of fabric._

_The relief Alfred felt couldn’t be summed up into words. His shoulders slumped and he let out an exhale (while murmuring a prayer of thanks). He jumped when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder, looing up to see Ivan kindly smiling down at him. His eyes were not cruel and cold like other countries. They were warm and sympathetic, looking at Alfred as if he were the cutest thing in the universe._

_“Do not worry so much, Fredka,” Ivan pat Alfred on the head. “Next time we may have drink!”_

_Alfred’s face lit up and he straightened to stand with an excited nod. Ivan was offering to meet again, so their relation hadn’t been damaged! Wow! Ivan seemed like such a nice guy! Alfred was sure they would be best friends for a long time!_

Alfred winced at the memory.

“Alfred.”

The American jumped and looked up. Ivan was staring at him with a slightly annoyed expression, and a slight pink tinge to his cheeks. Alfred heard _Fredka_ echoing in the back of his mind, wondering when Ivan had stopped calling him that. Had it been after he gained independence and established himself as his own country? Had it been later, during his civil war? Maybe during the first world war? Or the second? Alfred stared into Ivan’s eyes, not seeing the same warmth in them as there had been before. Instead, his expression was tense—guarded. 

Alfred finally acknowledged Ivan’s questioning tone, humming as he came back to reality. 

“I was asking if you were alright?” Ivan said, his polite tone not quite reaching his eyes. “Natalya can be quite intimidating.”

Alfred gathered up the damp, beef-filled towels, crumpling them into one of the dropped bowls. The mess was not completely clean, but that was the janitorial system’s job. He stood, grimacing at his dirty hands, and motioned for Ivan to follow him towards the bathroom. If the Russian was annoyed for Alfred ignoring his question, he didn’t show it. If anything, he was extremely stoic, and that perturbed Alfred more than anything.

The two threw their trash away, Ivan’s plate of food long forgotten, and then went to wash their hands. Alfred tried not to look at the Russian in the reflection of the mirror, but he couldn’t help but notice the way the other was behaving. He was washing his hands carefully—almost too slowly to be considered normal, and staring down at the sink like it was the most interesting thing in the universe. 

Alfred wondered why Ivan had gone through so much trouble to make food for him. If anything, he would’ve expected the other to gloat and tease him for liking “commie food”. Instead, Ivan secretly supplied Alfred with his current obsession, never even taking the credit for it. 

The two continued their actions for a long while, neither wanting to be the first to leave. The air was full of awkward tension.

Alfred turned off the water and dried his hands, passing a few paper towels to Ivan after the other turned his water off as well. Alfred shivered when their hands met, and Ivan’s eyes caught his. The Russian’s mouth turned down into a frown, and his eyebrows pressed together in concern. In that moment, Alfred hated the fact that Ivan was a couple of inches taller than he was. That had always annoyed him, especially when the other would leer at him with a mocking smile, but now it was just overwhelming. 

“Are you ok?” Ivan asked him again—this time a bit more sincerely.

Alfred opened his mouth to say yes, but instead he just stood there. Ivan leaned back, squinting at him. The air shifted a bit to one of annoyance, and Alfred swallowed. The last thing he wanted was to fight. Not then. He’d already had a stressful roller coaster of a day, the last thing he needed was to end it with a black eye.

It wasn’t until Ivan slithered past him to leave that Alfred realized the issue. Ivan had come to the conclusion that Alfred’s sudden silence was his way of saying he wanted nothing to do with him. In a spontaneous moment of panic, Alfred asked, “Why don’t you call me Fredka anymore?”

It was a weird question, but Ivan stopped in his tracks. Alfred turned and looked up, his hands rubbing his arms self-consciously. He watched as Ivan slowly turned around, his eyes filled with hesitance and confusion. In that moment, Ivan looked so much _older_. Sometimes, Alfred forgot how old the other man actually was, seeing as how youthful Ivan’s face seemed to stay, but the gauntness of his features in the dim light of that bathroom gave all secrets away.

A lot had happened since Alfred was a child—both to him _and_ Ivan. 

Perhaps the light warmth in the other’s eyes had been driven away from the past few centuries of war and turmoil. Or maybe the warmth had never been honest to begin with. Maybe, Ivan had always worn a mask around him, even before their differences made themselves known. Alfred couldn’t help but feel a bit saddened at the revelation.

“Would you like me to?” Ivan finally asked him, disbelief in his tone.

“I don’t know,” Alfred frowned, “Is that weird?”

 _”Nyet,”_ Ivan looked away.

The two stood in silence. Ivan seemed troubled and lost in thought, while Alfred shifted on his feet and tried to think of something to say. He had so much he _wanted_ to say, or ask, or _do_ , but he could not in fear of overstepping boundaries. He wouldn’t allow himself to bare so much emotion in fear of being rejected, or ridiculed.

Alfred gasped, his eyes wide. Ivan turned with risen eyebrows, nonverbally questioning Alfred. 

The realization hit Alfred like ice water. All these years he’d just assumed that Ivan was reserved because he was hiding something—and in his defense, Ivan probably did that as well, but he’d never realized that maybe—just maybe—Ivan was afraid to open up. Maybe, Ivan was afraid to be hurt after so many _many_ years of living. Alfred wasn’t stupid. He knew Ivan’s history wasn’t the easiest, and he could honestly say that sometimes he pitied the other, so maybe that really had taken its toll on the man. Maybe the smiles and joking requests for everyone to become one with him were just masks he wore to hide the pain and loneliness he felt, and Alfred (as well as everyone else) had just never noticed. 

Ivan had not told Alfred that the stroganoff was his, but perhaps the reason was that he was afraid Alfred would reject it if he’d known. That thought made Alfred feel a twinge of guilt, especially when he saw how guarded the other’s gaze was. 

Alfred stepped forward, his heart filled with empathy and his head with determination. Ivan did not move, but he watched Alfred with a suspicious stare. 

“Call me Fredka,” Alfred’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Like before.”

Ivan blinked, frowning in complete confusion. Alfred would have laughed if he hadn’t felt so ashamed for making the other feel so horrible, along with the nervousness he felt. 

“Why?” Ivan finally replied.

Alfred frowned, taking another step forward. This time, Ivan took a step back.

“We are friends,” Alfred stated. 

Ivan’s eyes grew comically large, and he stepped back once more. He slumped ever so slightly, curling on himself defensively. 

“Are we?” the Russian’s voice was so quiet, Alfred barely heard it.

Alfred stepped forward again, backing Ivan against the wall of the bathroom. Before the other could stop him, he reached out to take Ivan’s hand in his own. The only time their hands had ever met in the past (whether from fighting or shaking on diplomatic agreements), they had both worn gloves. Now, their calloused and scarred hands met—skin against skin—and Alfred shuddered. Ivan’s hands were so cold compared to his own.

He wanted to warm them up.

“I want to be,” Alfred admitted. “Vanya.”

Ivan’s breath hitched upon hearing the old nickname. Alfred had once asked him what his diminutive would be, and Ivan had answered “Vanya”. Alfred had called him that for so long, until one day…he hadn’t. He even knew when he’d heard the nickname last, and he felt his chest grow heavy at the memory.

_Ivan had never seen anything like it._

_Around him, American soldiers were bringing boxes of food, handing out bags of dried cornmeal and flushing in embarrassment when Russian women kissed their cheeks in thanks. His own people, fairly reclusive in their own way, were graciously and enthusiastically showing their appreciation, crying out kind words and shedding tears of joy. Ivan himself had not felt such relief in a very long time, but he could not bring himself to do much more than watch._

_He had spent too much time watching as his people starved—eating sticks and dirt, killing their own pets in an attempt to survive…and worse. He shook his head as bile rose in his throat, not wanting to think about some of the things he’d seen- _felt._ His own body had not stopped aching for months, both from his own hunger and from the pain he felt as his people perished. It was not the first time he’d felt such aches, but it was no less painful than the times before it._

_Ivan nearly toppled over when something was pressed into his hands. He looked down and saw a bar of chocolate, still neatly wrapped. Turning, he was met with the familiar smile of Alfred F. Jones._

_“You look like you need it,” Alfred said, still maintaining his distance._

_Ivan frowned, holding the chocolate like a lifeline. He watched Alfred through shadowed eyes, hating how miserable and weak he felt. The other—who was so much younger than him—looked at him with such pity, and Ivan _hated_ him for it. _

_“Why do you do this?” Ivan demanded. “If it is an alliance you seek, you will not receive it.”_

_“I know, Vanya,” Alfred gave him a sad smile. “You know that’s not why I’m here.”_

_Ivan felt his throat choke up with words of thanks he was unable to say, and he grit his teeth together in frustration and bitter resentment. Alfred gave him a knowing look, seeming to understand the situation._

_“Your efforts…” Ivan’s voice was strained. “They will not be remembered the way they have happened.”_

_“We will remember,” Alfred replied. “That is enough."_

The famine after the First World War had been one of Ivan’s least favorite memories. He had been unable to do much else than sit back and watch as his entire country starved, and his people cried out for a miracle. Then, Alfred had shown up out of nowhere with food to feed the universe, helping all of Ivan’s people when no one else had, even though their countries had a strained relationship. Ivan’s leader had twisted the story around, and for a time…even Ivan had forgotten how everything had happened. But anyone who had been there during that time knew the truth, and now Ivan remembered how overjoyed he’d felt, despite his anger conflicting him. Those times had been hard for everyone, but especially for him.

Alfred had helped his country when he could not.

“You have not called me that in a long time,” Ivan reminisced. “You say it differently now. Not out of pity.”

Alfred knew what the other meant. His heart was racing against his chest as he watched pink slowly tinge Ivan’s cheeks, and he stepped even closer. He squeezed Ivan’s stiff hand, hoping to thaw some of its ice. He felt Ivan’s fingers twitch to return the gesture, but he did not.

“Call me Fredka again,” Alfred breathed. _”Vanya.”_

Ivan’s eyes bore into his own. The intensity of the gaze was so strong, Alfred felt as though the other was staring into his very soul. He watched as the Russian’s pupils dilated, and the way his breathing grew quicker. Every change was minute and hard to catch, but if there was one thing Alfred was great at…it was observing Ivan. They did a lot of that during the Cold War, after all.

Ivan licked his chapped lips, and Alfred got even closer. Their chests now touching, Alfred reached a hand up to run it through Ivan’s hair. It was thick and wiry, easily tangling up in Alfred’s fingers. The American had never been turned on by hair before, but there was always a first time for everything. Ivan’s free hand pressed back against the tiled wall, grasping for some sort of stability. Despite being a few inches taller, Ivan felt more vulnerable than he had in a long, _long_ time. The look Alfred gave him was too knowing for his comfort, as if he could read the Russian like a book.

“Please,” Alfred said softly. “Say it to _me._ Not as Russia, but as _Ivan.”_

Ivan was torn between closing his eyes tightly and running away, and simply standing there with his eyes wide open. He did the latter, unable to do much else anyway, and focused on breathing through his nose. It was getting _far_ too hot.

_”Vanya-“_

“Fredka.”

Alfred froze, his eyes widening as they processed Ivan’s soft-spoken words. The two of them stood there for a long moment, frozen in their own thoughts. Alfred watched as Ivan began to shift uncomfortably, his eyebrows beginning to press together as he frowned. They both had so much to say—so many questions to ask, but they couldn’t. Not yet. There was one thing they could do, however…

And Alfred did it.

Alfred’s grip on Ivan’s hair tightened, but before the other could pull away in protest to the manhandling, Alfred slammed their lips together. Alfred had honestly never had to lean up to kiss anyone before, but he found himself surprisingly okay with the new development. 

Ivan’s lips were chapped and firm, while surprisingly soft and pliable. After a moment of initial shock and tension, Ivan’s eyes closed and he responded to Alfred’s administrations. The hand he had against the wall came up to rest against Alfred’s jaw, and Alfred felt his face flush at how intimate it felt. Their movements were slow and a bit unsure, but it left them both breathless. 

It wasn’t the first time they had kissed. Sometimes during the Cold War, tensions would rise to new levels and they would duke it out in more ways that one. Sometimes that meant fistfights and bloody lips, and other times that meant wrestling each other out of clothes and trying to subdue the other. 

This was different.

This time, there was no hostility. There was no _reason_ for them to be doing this, other than their own personal desires. For once, Alfred did not see Ivan as Russia. He did not see Ivan as a threat to his own country, or a cold frigid person who could not be trusted. Instead, he saw Ivan…a man, exhausted from so many centuries of living, who had been broken and abused until he could only see the world through a bleak and dark point of view. He saw a man, too afraid to be rejected to try and be friends with the only other person who could actually be bothered to understand how he felt. He saw someone who was still ashamed of the things he’d done—or rather the _lack_ of things he’d done, and someone who would refuse forgiveness…believing himself too far gone to deserve it.

He also saw a man who loved his sisters more than anything, despite everything they had—and were currently going through. He saw someone who never hesitated to share vodka with anyone who asked, and who would break out into an old folk song once everyone except him was too drunk to remember. He saw someone who spent hours during the Olympics stitching up Alfred’s flag—even after the American had basically tried to humiliate him, and who had bought Alfred a Happy Meal from a McDonald’s when the American had to stay an extra day in Moscow after a meeting because his flight was delayed due to weather. 

He saw a man who loved so much, but was too afraid to be loved.

Alfred pulled away, gasping for air as he hovered over Ivan’s lips. He held the other’s head firmly, not wanting to move away just yet. He shivered at the feeling of the other’s breath against his own lips, and opened his eyes to see Ivan’s cheeks flushed pink. The Russian’s eyes were closed as he stood there, still holding Alfred’s jaw in his hand, and Alfred couldn’t help but lean in and kiss him again. Ivan gasped, his other hand flying up to hold the other side of Alfred’s jaw, pulling the American closer as Alfred yanked him forward by the hair. 

Alfred’s pulse had never been this quick—not even during any of the wars he’d been in. He leaned up into Ivan, causing the other to press flush against the wall, hoping for some sort of stability. He noted with a pleased hum that Ivan tasted like gingerbread rather than the vodka he would have assumed he’d catch notes of, and felt himself desperate for more. 

But…not yet.

Pulling his head away, Alfred put a stop to their kiss. Ivan opened his eyes with that, staring into Alfred’s with an unknowable expression. Then, with a soft exhale of what sounded like exhaustion, Ivan lowered his forehead to rest on Alfred’s shoulder.

Ivan had never seemed so small.

Alfred wrapped his arms around Ivan then, pulling the other into the tightest hug he could manage. He closed his own eyes in relief when the Russian’s tense shoulders relaxed, and his arms came to wrap around Alfred. Alfred raised one hand to stroke Ivan’s hair, still enjoying the soft and wiry feel that was so different than his, hoping to provide some form of comfort. The corners of his lips turned upwards when he noticed Ivan nuzzling his neck with his nose, and had the situation been slightly different he would have commented teasingly on it.

This time, he let it slide.

“Fredka,” Ivan murmured. 

Alfred hummed.

“Did you, _tak…_ ” Ivan shifted awkwardly. “Did you like your birthday gift?”

Alfred smiled, “Yeah, I did.”

“I’m glad.”

“I never knew you could cook so well,” Alfred admitted. 

“You never wanted to know.”

Alfred pulled away, brushing a strand of hair out of Ivan’s eyes. He blushed in embarrassment, running his other hand through his hair to tidy it up a bit. 

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Alfred laughed awkwardly. “I guess I’ll just have to pay more attention from now on!”

Ivan looked down at his feet, a pink tinge still coloring his own cheeks. Alfred could practically see gears turning in the other’s head as he tried to think of something to say. Alfred saved him the trouble and poked his nose to get his attention. Ivan looked up.

“Wanna hang in my room later? I’ve got Portal 2!” Alfred grinned widely. 

If there was one thing the two of them agreed on, it was that Portal was awesome. Alfred briefly remembered the two of them hanging out at a place in Japan the last time the Asian male had hosted a meeting, and arguing over where to take the companion cube in the first game. Alfred had been the one playing, but Ivan had been there to antagonize him and question every decision he made, whether right or wrong. However, after a good half an hour of playing, the two ended up cooperating to figure out the later puzzles. 

It had been a lot of fun!

Ivan blinked before a small smile crept up on his face. He nodded minutely, his hair bouncing lightly from the movement. Alfred gave him a toothy smile and reached down to grab his hand, surprising Ivan a bit as he led them out of the restroom. The other seemed a bit uncomfortable about doing so in public, but he did not try to pull away.

“Oh, and feel free to visit any time and bring me more of your stroke…stroke-a-what’s-it!” Alfred said behind him as he walked.

“Stroganoff, Fredka.”

“Yeah, that! God, I love that stuff!”

Alfred almost missed the soft laugh the other emitted, and the sincerity in his voice when he said, “I’m glad, _dorogoy.”_

**Author's Note:**

> LIST OF FOOD
> 
> 1\. Caprese salad
> 
> 2\. Belarussian Potato Babka 
> 
> 3\. Lithuanian Cepelinai
> 
> 4\. Stroganoff (aka the heavenly food of the gods)
> 
> 5\. Pelmeni
> 
> 6\. Russian Cabbage Rolls (Golubtsy)
> 
> 7\. Pryanik (aka Russian Gingerbread :D)
> 
> 8\. Russian Shchi (This one had sauerkraut, and it's delicious if you are wondering).
> 
> 9\. Ukha.
> 
> 10\. That pink stuff that Ivan made Alfred eat was Herring under Fur Coat, or Shuba. I've never had it, but my parents have...and they described it as being one of the worst things they had ever eaten. After doing research, a lot of people do actually like it, so I guess it's just one of those things that you either hate or you love. :D I would like to try it one day, even if I know I probably won't like it (I strongly dislike fish).


End file.
